Colonial Madness by Jo Whittemore

the afternoon challenge.”
    â€œYeah,” I said, pocketing it. “You too.”
    But I knew neither of us really meant it.
    After a delicious lunch of second-story chicken, Mom and I joined the other families in a field where targets had been set up fifty yards away. Eli leaned against a post jutting from the ground, one of about twenty posts scattered at random around us.
    â€œIt would appear that some of you lack in foodstuffs,” he said. “In colonial times, this was when it became necessary to find more. Therefore, we give you the opportunity to go ‘hunting.’ ” He crooked his fingers.
    â€œDid air quotes exist in colonial times?” Mom asked me in a low voice. I shushed her.
    â€œIt would be truer to have you shoot and kill your own animals,” he said, causing Angel’s whole family to gasp. “But I do not feel as if you can all be trusted with weaponry.” I might have imaginedit, but I was pretty sure his eyes flicked to Dylan.
    â€œTherefore, using bow and arrow, you will attempt to hit the target, the bull’s-eye specifically. The closest two will win a basket of foodstuffs.”
    â€œEasy,” said Mom. “I took archery at summer camp.”
    Several other people murmured confidence in themselves.
    â€œLet’s get shooting,” said Dylan, rubbing his hands together. “Where’s the gear?”
    Eli smiled and indicated a stack of bows propped against a tree. “I’ve provided the bows. You must provide the arrows.”
    â€œHow’s that?” someone asked.
    â€œWe have to make them,” I said.
    â€œCorrect!” said Eli. “All you should require are sticks and feathers.” When he mentioned the first item, he pointed to the trees, and when he mentioned the second . . . Caleb rolled up in a wagon with another guy about his age in a hat that said TOM’S TURKEYS .
    â€œUh-oh,” said Angel.
    Both guys jumped down and grabbed a roll of baling wire off the back. In five minutes’ time, they’d unrolled it all around the posts I’d noticed, and soon the families were enclosed in a large patch of field.
    And then . . . the demons were unleashed.
    A dozen turkeys who clearly did not want to lose their feathers sprinted from their cage to the far end of the enclosure.
    â€œYou have until the sand runs out to prepare three arrows per family,” said Eli. He held up a large hourglass and flipped it over.
    Everyone burst into action, running straight for the turkeys. Mom grabbed my arm and held me back.
    â€œEveryone else is gonna get their feathers first!” I said, trying to pull free.
    â€œNo,” said Mom, crouching low. “They’re going to drive the turkeys right to us.”
    Sure enough, half the birds were headed back toward our side of the enclosure.
    â€œThere.” She pointed. “The one that looks like it has a perm.”
    We both dove for the same bird, which squawked and let out a Gobble of Doom.
    Mom held it tight. “Get four feathers!”
    I winced and said, “Sorry, Mr. Turkey.” Then I grabbed the feathers and yanked. The second they were in my hand, Mom released the bird and grabbed my free hand.
    â€œLet’s go!”
    She pulled me out of the enclosure, and I was happy to see we were the first ones free.
    â€œGrab the straightest, longest sticks you can find,” she instructed me. “I’ll split the feathers.”
    I scanned the ground for fallen branches, picking some up and throwing others aside. After I found the best, I glanced at the hourglass in Eli’s hand. It was halfway empty. I glanced into the turkey pen. One of the families was still inside.
    â€œTori!” Mom called to me.
    I hurried over with the branches and she studied them, throwing away all but three.
    â€œGood job,” she said. Mom took a knife out of her pocket and sharpened one end of each stick into a